Brody

Thank you for reading Brody, Book #3 in the Texas Boudreau Brotherhood series. I hope you enjoyed Brody and Beth’s story. Want to find out more about Ridge Boudreau and the excitement and adventure he’s about to plunge headfirst into? Keep reading for an excerpt from his book, Ridge, Book #4 in the Texas Boudreau Brotherhood. Available at all major e-book and print vendors.

Pulling into the garage, Maggie killed the engine and reached for the button to lower the door, but movement from the corner of her eye stopped her dead in her tracks. Somebody was sneaking around her property. Couldn’t be Henry. She’d talked to him earlier that morning, and he’d asked for the day off. Felicia, her housekeeper, had already come and gone.

Reaching across the seat, she wrapped her hand around the shotgun and stepped out of the garage. Scowling at the thought of another trespasser, she skirted the perimeter of the house, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. Nothing. Was her imagination playing tricks on her? She was getting antsy, because she’d caught a couple of up-to-no-good squatters on the back forty of her property, and chased them off. Why couldn’t people mind their own business, and keep their noses out of hers?

There it was again. Somebody crept around the edge of her patio, although creeping might not be the best word. He really didn’t slink or even trying to hide. The way he walked reminded her of one of the bigger jungle cats. A lion or maybe a panther, all smooth, controlled muscle, coiled and ready to pounce.

With a moue of disgust, she flattened her back against the Texas limestone of her house and watched. Waited. And wondered what game the stranger was up to. He was far enough away she couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him was a feast of sensuality. From his predatory walk to his dark hair, he exuded an almost feral nature. A wildness she’d never imagined being attracted to—until now.

His gaze seemed to miss nothing, studying not only the house, but the grounds. The flowering rose bushes she’d lovingly planted so long ago, when she’d first gotten married and life had been simpler. In hindsight, she could recognize the irony of planting roses. Her life had been nothing but prickly thorns for so long, she’d all but forgotten there was beauty to go along with the pain.

Some instinct must have alerted him, though she hadn’t moved a muscle, because he stopped, frozen in place. He spread his hands out to his sides, palms forward, showing them to be empty. She knew he hadn’t spotted her, but something made him realize he wasn’t alone.

Lifting the shotgun in front of her, she stepped out into the open, and pointed it straight at him. Never wincing. Never flinching.

“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. I’ve only got one thing to say.” She hefted the gun higher, pointing it directly at his head. “Get off my property.”